


The Talk of the Town

by AndreaLyn



Category: Tin Man (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of Central City knows that Wyatt Cain and Lord Ambrose are a couple. It's a shame that Cain and Ambrose don't happen to know this little fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Talk of the Town

There was a narrow and quaint little Central townhouse that came completely furnished and didn’t break the bank. One sunny autumn day, sometime after the Witch fell, Wyatt Cain moved in with all his possessions and the day after that, so did Sir Ambrose. They quickly became the gossip of the town and the palace, though folk were often forced to admit: “Well, no, I’ve never actually  _seen_  any of this with my own eyes, but it comes from a friend of my cousin’s friend. Very reputable source!” Logic, though, insisted that something was afoot. Why else would two bachelors lock themselves in a family abode? It quickly became a ritual for citizens of Central City to perch beneath the lamp outside the townhouse, just watching the windows for activity, for proof.   
  
It most likely would have frustrated the whole city, really, if they knew that neither Cain nor Ambrose thought it possible for people to believe such a thing.  
  
They had established their own comfortable routines. They spent nine to ten in the morning at the market (but never touched hands, gossiped the women, and certainly never kissed, harrumphed those in the gentlemen’s clubs). Once fresh food for the day had been bought, Ambrose regularly passed a note to Cain and they parted ways to different directions of town.  
  
“I bet it’s a love note,” the ladies sighed at the launderettes.  
  
“Some reminder of appointments to be punctual for,” said the men at their poker games.  
  
(It would disappoint them to know that it was merely a shopping list of meat, priced to the nearest pound and ounce.)  
  
At eleven, they met in the square and bought a bouquet every day, which was the source of much consternation for husbands in the O.Z., whose wives smacked their arms and chests and remarked, “Well,  _they_  buy flowers for each other.”  
  
At noon, they retired for lunch and work until late into the evening, whereupon their activities became private and shrouded in myth and mystery. (“They do what all couples do,“ said the working girls and the married men were passionate in thinking they merely unwind privately.)  
  
What was most unfortunate for Ambrose and Cain, however, was that their status as a couple was not only widely believed by Central City and the O.Z., but also by their closest and dearest of friends.  
  
*  
  
The townhome had been a saving grace for the men, who saw not a couples’ home but a reasonable investment. “I hate living alone,” Cain said. “And there’s two bedrooms.” So Ambrose’s room faced North and Cain’s bedroom faced South and they shared a bathroom in between. They had their quiet little domestic rituals and the usual annoyances, as happened in any shared home. They always took dinner together, as it was about the only time of the day they had to talk to each other.   
  
“The Queen wants us to visit,” Cain relayed the news, settling a card beside Ambrose’s plate before he returned his attention to the beef. “You think she’ll do what she did last time, if we go?”  
  
“She needed the space for the traveling musicians. Having us share a room to make space wasn’t exactly malicious,” Ambrose mumbled distractedly, focusing primarily on the invitation.  
  
“It wasn’t that,” Cain scowled. “It was the way she said it, like we do it all the time.”  
  
The daily flowers sat by the window at Ambrose’s insistence. They had no garden and had to make do with small potted plants and fresh-cut flowers. This was Ambrose’s domain and he ruled it happily with one of the greenest thumbs the O.Z. had ever seen.   
  
“Well, we can’t say no,” Ambrose put it plainly, accepting both the vinegar and grated cheese from Cain, who didn’t like them himself, but knew Ambrose would put the both on just about anything he could. “Besides, this way we’ll see the girls and Raw. Is Jeb still hovering around DG?”  
  
“He’s constantly fishing for stories about the Other Side, yeah,” Cain confirmed. An ‘unquenchable thirst’, Ambrose had once called it, ‘that he apparently got via osmosis,’ he had added with slight wickedness, at which Cain had merely smacked him over the head with his hat. “I suppose there’s that. But don’t you notice the looks they’ve given us?”  
  
“After ten annuals with a zipper in my head, I’ve gotten used to staring,” Ambrose said quietly. “I don’t really notice looks anymore.” Cain knew that, but sometimes, Cain asked things twice to three times. Ambrose supposed you didn’t test your memory so much while stuck in an Iron Suit. It was familiar by now, anyway, for Ambrose to gently lay a hand on Cain’s shoulder and remind him of something very lightly.   
  
This time didn’t require the touch, but he gave Cain a polite smile to ensure the other man understood there was no judging going on.   
  
“Then I guess we go,” Cain admitted, settling back and patting down his mouth with a napkin, giving Ambrose his own version of a kind smile in return. The post-dinner routine was a familiar one by then, as well. They would do dishes together before Cain took to drying them and Ambrose arranged the ingredients for the next morning’s breakfast. It was simple, it was familiar, but best of all, it was  _theirs_. It was a routine etched out by repetition that they were happy to follow.  
  
Their arrival to the palace mere days later was met with a chorus of cheer and Jeb had been the first one out to greet them, giving Ambrose the same look that consistently puzzled the other man. It was filled with trepidation and worry, mixed with relief and happiness and Ambrose, for the life of him, didn’t know what it meant.  
  
“DG was wondering when you’d both get here,” he greeted, hefting up Ambrose’s bag with one hand. “The Queen’s got you both in the Pinewood Suite.”  
  
“Sorry, both?” Ambrose interrupted, blinking warily.  
  
Jeb paused, his gaze flickering between both Ambrose and Cain as if he was searching for an answer that had hopped between them and nestled itself secretly there. “Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word slowly. “Should she not have?” he asked, turning to his father. “It’s busy as hells here what with the Tin Men from all over and…”  
  
“And she needed us to share a room to make space,” Cain finished the sentence with what he  _presumed_  Jeb was about to say, shooting a knowing glower at Ambrose (who suddenly found great interest in both the ceiling and whistling).   
  
“She wants you to sit with her for dinner,” Jeb said to Cain, hefting up a second bag and leading them down the maze of halls populated with luggage, people, and the more-than-occasional tray or three. “Her, Ahamo, and pretty much all the senior Tin Men.”   
  
“She does know that I’m not a cop anymore, right?” Cain asked, as if that was a point that needed clarification. Cain had taken his former experiences and moved into the PI business, investigating people’s lost loved ones, property, and all other manner of detecting that was needed in the remnants of the chaotic realm that the Witch had created.   
  
Jeb just shrugged. “DG,” was all he said by way of explanation. “Did you know they have whole  _continents_  past their oceans there?” he asked excitedly. “And that they don’t just stop at water’s edge?”  
  
Ambrose was concealing a smile to the side of them and Cain managed his own polite smile in his son’s direction. “How about you just show us that room?”  
  
*  
  
It was in enjoying their private dinner for two that Wyatt Cain finally spoke aloud what he’d been thinking and suspecting for some days now. The palace waiters had cleared the drinks and supper, but had left them to their own devices amidst the sound of romantic music and dimmed lighting.   
  
“They think we’re a couple,” he informed his dining mate, even as he had to lean over the table and clean off a smudge on Ambrose’s cheek that he constantly kept missing, even through Cain’s guided directions as to where it was.   
  
“Oh,” was all the answer a genius like Ambrose could muster.  
  
Hours later on their balcony (when the suns had just descended into the horizon and cast the O.Z. in a beautiful purple blanket), Ambrose glanced to Cain under the blanket of stars and contorted his body to lazily sprawl back on the marble fence. “You know. They’re a little right.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Ambrose didn’t blame Cain for his inability to keep up. After all, he likely hadn’t been processing the conundrum of their seeming coupledom through a massive brain for hours. Cain had other attributes that Ambrose could never attain and they were even, in a way.   
  
“About us. About us being together. We are, we just skipped all the way to the way old married couples behave. As characterized by routines, bickering spats, little to no physical affection, but comfortable. We’re like old slippers.”  
  
“Smart as you are,” Cain swore, shaking his head, “you’re not exactly a poet with your words.”  
  
“It does mean we skipped all the fun stuff,” Ambrose added ruefully, “but most couples never reach this stage of comfort. It’s all a trade-off, really.” He leaned back, satisfied to have aired his theorem in words and to find it made the most perfect of sense out loud as it had in his mind.   
  
Cain gave something of a considerate ‘hm’, joining Ambrose to stare skywards, supporting him from falling (the action nearly an afterthought to prevent a once-clumsy man from tumbling to his death). “Suppose that’s why Miss Waters won’t dare flirt back,” Cain commented.  
  
“And why Lady Simmons accuses me of being a man of terrible morals whenever I try and cozy up to her,” Ambrose said, suddenly laughing as the behavior of so many friends and strangers came into perfect clarity. “Oh, gods,” he said, wiping away a tear of laughter as he looked to Cain in the moonslight. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think they’d take it this way. You’d think the Old Laws still applied.” The Old Laws stipulated that any two people who moved into a Central domain had to either be married or become as good as it upon crossing the threshold. It had been a silly law to try and encourage more family-oriented neighborhoods. “I can move my things out and we can put a stop to it.”  
  
“Nah, don’t do that,” Cain easily assured. “They’ll talk either way. And besides, is it so bad living with me?”  
  
Color rose in Ambrose’s cheeks, barely visible in the moonslight and a chill went up his back as Cain moved his hand up to Ambrose’s shoulder blades. “No, you’re a good roommate,” he insisted, past the brief flicker of humiliation that had arose at the implication that Cain might think he was somehow displeased with their living situation.  
  
“Then things will just stay the same,” Cain agreed.  
  
But of course, saying words as such is as good as inviting a jinx upon your house and head. Things tried to stay the same, but they failed wholeheartedly in a matter of days. Routines that were once comfortable and easy now bore great tension, accompanied with heated words and long looks. Some routines were abandoned all-together.  
  
Ambrose’s great mind immediately set about trying to solve the problem.  
  
It clicked when they stood together in the bathroom before bed. Cain slept in only a pair of trousers and washed his face while shirtless. Beside him, Ambrose brushed out the tangles in his hair. They each were suppressing dual fantasies about the ivory sink before them – similar in scope, yet different in the details.  
  
“We’re not old slippers anymore,” Ambrose said tensely, setting the brush down on the counter as he looked to Cain, expression holding a great deal of trepidation. “I hate to say it, but now we’re fireworks.”  
  
“I’m listening.”  
  
“We could explode at  _any second_ ,” Ambrose sounded ragged, even to himself, like solving this had taxed himself whole, body, mind, and spirit. “Now that we’ve each become aware of even the possibility of us as a couple, imagined in the minds of others, I imagine it’s been consuming us.” He resolutely kept his gaze above Cain’s shoulders, forcing his gaze not to dip down and look at his bare chest. “Anyway.” Teeth brushed, cups of water and mouthwash used, faces washed, and reflections inspected, they had completed their nightly ritual. “Goodnight.”  
  
Neither of them moved a single inch. Each ran through one more loop of their personal sink fantasy, but the explosion never came.  
  
“Goodnight,” Cain agreed and they simultaneously left through separate doors to their individual bedrooms, where fantasies about ivory sinks were exchanged for thoughts about plush coverlets and hardy mattresses.   
  
*  
  
The next day, they ate at The Sweet Prince for lunch and ignored the way people whispered when Cain held out the chair for Ambrose and they ate freely from each other’s plates. As it was a weekend, they spent the early afternoon in the bookshop for Ambrose’s sake and the antiques market for Cain’s. At each, they hovered around the other as they made their weekly purchases. They took dinner with Azkadellia and DG, who asked if things were going well. In an effort to not go through the old song and dance of ‘how many times do we have to say we’re not together?’, Cain and Ambrose simply chorused a sighed ‘yes’.   
  
With the veil of the truth stripped away, both Cain and Ambrose became all too cognizant of what people thought of them and what were simply confusing looks before became _knowing_  looks and whispered remarks were no longer simply gossip, but gossip about  _them_.  
  
Cain broke one day when he was picking up the usual shipment of bread for the day and had his hand gripping the lapel of the baker with his other hand twitching for a gun he no longer carried.  
  
“How long have you been making those stupid puns about me and Ambrose?” he demanded.  
  
“S-sir?”  
  
“How long!”  
  
“Three months, sir, I thought you knew. I just thought you never laughed because well, you didn’t appreciate a good joke!” the young redheaded man managed with a lopsided and hopeful grin.  
  
Cain released him and grabbed hold of the bags of food. “No. I didn’t know.” He set down the platinums and bills on the table that he’d need to pay for the purchase and before he left, hesitated just once more by the counter. “You’re also not very funny.” With that, he took his purchases and left the store, scowling at the flower-woman who asked if he wanted a rose for his sweetheart, at the librarian who said he had a new shipment for Ambrose if he didn’t mind bringing them to his significant other, and glared outwardly at the grocer who said he had the perfect steak for a dinner for two.  
  
By the time he arrived home, Cain was piping with irritation and anger, slamming the buns down on the table – which proved mildly ineffective, as bread cannot slam very well at all.   
  
Ambrose barely glanced up from his reading chair, but his gaze came from over the thick rims of his reading glasses. “Did the baker’s boy make another joke about things rising with careful attention?” he asked, with grave concern.   
  
Cain just glared at Ambrose because he was running at a hundred percent for catching everyone he saw in a glare, and who better to deserve one of those glares than Ambrose himself, who had coaxed him into such a complacent lifestyle and who looked too damn good in those glasses and was just sitting there as if they weren’t fireworks or whatever other stupid metaphor he had used. He briefly considered finding the safe with his gun, unlocking the bolt, unwinding the safe, unlocking the next lock, taking it out of the protective casing, taking the safety guard off and getting it out just so he could wave it around in a threatening manner. He also considered crawling atop Ambrose in that chair and lighting the wick on those fireworks already.   
  
Instead, he just kept glowering.  
  
“If you’re trying to kill me with the power of your mind, that technology is still twenty annuals away from being perfect,” Ambrose said mildly. “What happened?”  
  
“Everyone thinks we’re together.  _Everyone_.”  
  
“I thought we went over this. You do remember that?” Ambrose lightly prodded.   
  
Cain abandoned the notion of explaining any of this along with his patience and decided there was no point in even trying to argue for the sense of logic and people not jumping to conclusions. “Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s go for a walk.” And if that walk just happened to have an ulterior motive to it, he wasn’t addressing it aloud with Ambrose. He was already in the process of shrugging on his coat and was ready to talk it alone if necessary.  
  
Of course…  
  
*  
  
…of course, that would make the situation quite awkward, if he’d had no one to pin up against the brick wall outside Drury Lane (which ran parallel to Ruby Road and was also the town’s most gossipy district thanks to a large number of unemployed hookers whose clients had all run off to be married when their girlfriends became pregnant or their boyfriends became needy).   
  
Because Cain had decided to take that metaphorical lighter (or match or flint or really large piece of glass, if you would) and place it beneath them and if the town was going to make rumors and spread their own little falsities about them, Cain wanted to at least be able to deliver.  
  
So in the midst of their walk and Ambrose’s ambivalent discussion about theatre tickets (“I know, I know, you aren’t the biggest fan, but I thought you might want to see the production they’re doing of the retelling of the Saving of the O.Z. The man playing you is actually very talented.”) Cain had grabbed hold of Ambrose’s wrist and shoved him up against the brick wall before pushing his tongue down his throat.   
  
It vaguely resembled a cracking noise in the sky, Ambrose said later, in describing the sound his knees made when they buckled and Cain had to support him with an arm tucked around his back, holding him up to prolong the kiss.   
  
Cain eased away and stared down at a befuddled Ambrose and ignored the ‘tut-tuts’ from the town and the soft chatters of excitement.  
  
“Cain?”  
  
“So, what are we now if we’ve moved away from old slippers and fireworks?”  
  
“I’ll get back to you on that,” Ambrose said breathlessly, staring at Cain in incredulous disbelief that he could  _ask_  something at a time like that.  
  
*  
  
Two annuals later, there was a quaint and cozy little townhouse that remained the talk of the town and belonged to two men. Wyatt Cain and Lord Ambrose, they said, had been living there since the defeat of the Witch and because of their notoriety and fame, had to secretly become wed in order to not attract attention.  
  
It would be a great disappointment, for Cain and Ambrose then, to learn that not only did the entire city of Central believe this gossip, but Azkadellia and DG did, as well.  
  
“This time,” Cain announced upon the discovery of the facts, “we’re moving.”


End file.
